Matilda hesitated. Spring was here and summer on the way. She could do without a cloak until fall, by which time who knew where she would be or whether she would need a cloak there. So off it came. The tinker took Matilda's letter, folded it, and tucked it carefully inside his shirt. "A few days only and your letter and I will reach Oxford." He rode away with her cloak and her letter, pots and pans and kettles clanking.
When Matilda returned, Peg was not at home. Nor was she there very often in the next few days. She was with Grizzl, who was failing despite Peg's care and Matilda's prayers. One day when primroses bloomed in the refuse in the alley, Peg and Margery came slowly in. "Grizzl has gone," Peg said to Matilda, her red and freckled face almost unrecognizable in its grief.
Matilda crossed herself. She pictured the little hobbled woman with the big smile. Poor gentle Grizzl was in Heaven now, but Matilda would miss her. Looking at Peg's pain, Matilda thought, Grizzl should not have died! And then she said it aloud. "Grizzl should not have died. Master Theobald should have been consulted. He would have known what to do."
"Enough, Matilda," said Peg as she put an arm about Margery's shoulder. "Enough." But still Matilda thought with sorrow, I should have taken Master Theobald to Grizzl
There was no money for a coffin or a crier to call, "Pray God for the dead," but Matilda joined the small procession that carried Grizzl, wrapped in Peg's best bed linen, to the churchyard. Margery brought all her ends and pieces of candles to add to Peg's and Nathaniel's store, so each mourner had a bit of lighted candle to carry. Violets, buttercups, and columbine basked in the May sunshine and nodded their many-colored heads as the mourners passed by. The small bundle that had been Grizzl was laid in a grave near the apple tree. Matilda heard little of what the priest said because of the voice in her head that was saying she should have fetched Master Theobald, Master Theobald, Master Theobald.
Afterward the setting of bones went on. Alkelda Weaver brought the baby again and again. Peg pushed and pulled her legs; Matilda rubbed in an ointment of bittersweet and chamomile and gave her a decoction of wild strawberry and acanthus leaves to drink. After one visit Matilda offered to hold the child while her mother ate her dinner. The little girl smelled of strawberry and chamomile and warm baby sweat. She reached up and touched Matilda's face as softly as a fairy might. The touch sent warmth right down Matilda's body to her heart. She touched the baby's face in return and whispered, "Hush thee, hush thee, dinna fret thee, the Divil willna get thee."
Chapter Fifteen: Naming Birds
The west wind blew warm. The May air was sweet with blossoms and sour with the smell of wet earth freshly turned over. The rumble of the dung carts carrying stable sweepings to spread on fields and garden plots sounded on the air like the moaning of lost souls.
Each day Matilda imagined where on the road her letter might be, who was reading it, what great physician was saying at that very moment, "Why, I have just the answer for this girl. Let me write and tell her."
One afternoon Matilda went again to the tanner's yard by the river, and Walter came along to help carry the bundles of hides. They sniffed deeply, reveling in the smell of new grass, baking bread, and drying mud.
On the way back they pulled off their boots and waded in the muck and puddles along the riverside, warmed by the sun. Boats and barges loaded with wood and wool and iron tools crowded the river.
"Aye, it's a grand day," said Walter.
Matilda said nothing but marveled at the beauty of the early summer, which she was accustomed to seeing only through the narrow window of the priest's study. Warmed by the air, she felt her body ease. A breeze blew sweetly like the breath of God, and the air was heavy with the song of birds.
"Never have I heard so many birds," said Matilda.
"They are not just birds," said Walter. "They have names. Those brown spotted birds calling tchuck-tchick, those are throstles. And the ones singing their song high in the sky are skylarks."
Matilda stopped still and watched the sky as Walter pointed at the birds. Of course they had names. Everything on God's earth had a name. "How do you know these things?" she asked him.
"I grew up in a village filled with birds like these. I also know about badgers and foxes, teasel and thistle, and many other things. I am at heart a countryman."
"Once," said Matilda softly, "you said my hair was as gold as the belly of an ouzel. What is an ouzel?"
"There," Walter pointed, "on that stone in the stream, that bird with the loud, bubbling song. That is a gold-bellied ouzel."
Matilda laughed. She laughed again as Walter imitated the ha-ha-ha-ha-ha of a woodpecker and the sad, sweet song of a willow warbler.
"Throstles, larks, the gold-bellied ouzel, woodpeckers, and willow warblers," said Matilda with pleasure. "I can say 'bird' in Latin and Greek but never knew their names. Now I can name them," and she did: throstles and larks and gold-bellied ouzels, some woodpeckers and willow warblers. "And I can sing them," and she did: throstles and larks and gold-bellied ouzels, some woodpeckers and willow warblers. Walter joined in and they danced a shy, clumsy dance there by the stream as they sang their summer song.
Soon they had to rest, so they sat side by side in the warm grass as the sky grew the mottled red and blue of the bruise on Matilda's leg left by the bite of one of Samson's geese. Matilda realized she now knew less about Walter than she knew about birds. "Tell me," she said, "how you came to Nathaniel."
"My mum sent me to be apprentice when I was eight," he said, and smiled. "When I first entered the large shop near the east market, my knees knocked together like cymbals. I thought surely I'd be sent home, puny and scared as I was. In my heart I yearned to go, but my empty belly knew that Mum had sent me for my own good."
Walter bent over double and screwed his face into a maze of laugh lines and wrinkles so that he looked more like Sarah than Sarah herself. "'Looks a mite small for doing what needs doing, Nathaniel,' Sarah said. 'I'm stronger than I look, sir,' I said to Nathaniel. 'I can wrestle Matthew down to the ground, and he has two years on me.'"
Matilda watched, fascinated, as Walter changed from Sarah back to Walter and then into a tiny bald-headed Nathaniel: "Then I have no doubt of your strength. How are your brains?'
'"I know A from B and two plus two,' I answered him. 'That'll do. The rest you can learn,' said Nathaniel Cross. And so I stayed," Walter said, turning back into himself. He stretched and began to look about for his boots.
"Did you miss your home?" said Matilda, searching his face.
Walter shrugged. "I cried for Mum some, alone at night on my straw mat in that strange house in a strange town. Never before had I slept without Matthew and Martin snuggled up beside me, and the sound of Mum's snoring saying she was here and all was well. Still I stayed. I am here yet. And never now would I go from here." He looked at Matilda. "What of your mother? Do you miss her?"
Matilda thought for a moment, then said, "My mother ran off when I was a babe and—" She stopped suddenly, surprised to be confiding in Walter in the broad daylight, but then continued. "I was living there at the manor where my father was clerk, and when my father died, I became ward of Lord Randall ... no, in truth, since I was there already, Lord Randall said, 'Let her stay but keep her out of my way,' and Father Leufredus said..." The words poured out of her like beans from a broken pot.
"Hold up. I cannot listen as fast as you talk," said Walter.
Matilda looked down at her feet and then up into Walter's impudent, friendly, familiar face. "These boots," she whispered, pulling them back on, "are all I have that is truly mine. They belonged to my father. All else was given me by those at the manor and taken back when I was sent away. I am more welcome in Peg's little shop than ever I was in that fine house." She looked at Walter. "Never have I told anyone this. I myself did not know it."
There was silence for a moment as they loaded Walter's back with hides and continued on their way. "Last night I had a dream about Hell," Matilda said as they walked. "Beelzebub wa
s dining on roast heretic with garlic sauce. I was there, but was I dinner guest or dinner I do not know."
"You think much on demons," said Walter.
"Father Leufredus taught me well to fear them and the roiling sea of fire that is Hell."
"What about God's love?"
God's love. Walter must know a different God than she did, remembering Father Leufredus's warnings about Hellfire and punishment and God's anger. Now she thought of it, so did Tildy, who spoke of laughing prayers. "Father Leufredus was not one to speak much of love," she said at last.
"I do not doubt that," said Walter.
"I used to think it would please God if I became a martyr," Matilda went on, "but when faced with the choice of death by fire, drowning, or disemboweling, I decided it was sufficient to have learning and Latin. Now it happens that is worth nothing at all here."
Walter looked puzzled. "You're a strange duck, Matilda."
"In truth I feel much like a duck, a duck living among chickens. I walk differently, cluck differently. I used to think it was the chickens who were strange, but now I do not know."
"My mum used to say, 'Ducks may be useless birds, but only a duck can lay a duck egg.'"
Matilda looked at him sharply. Did he mean that she, too, was useless? But what she saw in his face made her think she was being comforted, so she smiled, and they walked in silence all the way back to Peg's.
Chapter Sixteen: Tending Tildy
May warmed and deepened, promising to turn into summer soon. More customers came with assorted breaks, sprains, strains, and attendant ill tempers. Tom came back, and the small shop was again filled with the sounds of whispering and laughter. Matilda felt alone and restless. She had just told Walter that she felt welcome at Peg's shop, and now she felt welcome nowhere. Her mind was all ab hoc et ab hoc, here and there, and so were her feet.
"Go," said Peg. "Somewhere else. I can pace and sigh as well myself," said Peg. "And, Matilda, there is no need to hasten back."
It being Friday and nearly the hour of Sext, Matilda headed for the well in the market square. She would see Tildy, and Tildy would make her laugh.
Matilda sat down next to Tildy on the well's edge. Before either girl could open her mouth, Fat Annet rushed up, waving a basket cradling a joint of beef. "There you are, you lazy nincompoop!" she shouted. "Lollygagging and leaving me to face the butcher." She struck Tildy sharply with the basket and stomped off. Tildy teetered for a moment and then fell right into the well, banging her head sharply on the edge. The well was shallow enough for Matilda to reach Tildy's feet but deep enough for her head to be in the water.
Lucy Goode the rosary maker and Tomas Tailor's skinny wife, wet from laundry, tucked up their skirts and helped Matilda pull Tildy out. She was breathing, but shallowly, face pale, big cut on her forehead streaming blood, tinting the water the color of sunset. Matilda feared for her. Would she die, as Grizzl had?
Lucy shook her head. "So much blood."
"That Annet ever was hotheaded and brutish," said the tailor's wife. "The girl will likely die."
"Saliva mucusque! She will not die! I will fetch someone to help," Matilda said. She ripped a strip of cloth from her kirtle (not without regret, for it was her only kirtle) and wrapped it around Tildy's head. "I will return as soon as I can," she said. "Don't let her die!"
Matilda ran as fast as she was able, her bare feet tripping over cobblestones and splashing through the slimy water that ran down the middle of the streets, thinking, Tildy cannot die. Matilda could not wrap her in linen and put her in the ground, as Grizzl had been put. Tildy cannot die! I must find Master Theobald, she thought. Please God he is at home.
Matilda ran through the market square, skirt flapping about her ankles and hair tangled about her face. At the turning to Master Theobald's, she found herself slowing down, strangely reluctant to go farther. I must fetch Master Theobald, she told herself. He is the towns leading physician.
He talked like a fool, said Effie's voice. And he failed to help Nathaniel, Matilda's own voice added in her mind.
"Saliva mucusque! What shall I do?" She turned in the direction of Blood and Bone Alley and ran to ask Peg's advice. But Peg was not there. Nor were Nathaniel and Walter. They were gathering wood sorrel and birthwort root, Sarah said, and would not be home until supper.
Another Saliva mucusque! as Matilda sat down to catch her breath. What would Father Leufredus suggest? Probably he would pray and quote Saint Augustine. That was no help. She thought a moment. Whom could she trust? Who would help her? And the answer that came surprised her. Doctor Margery.
No, she thought, jumping up. Not Doctor Margery, with her big feet and wrong-headed opinions.
But yes, her mind said again. Doctor Margery with her clever fingers and common sense.
Master Theobald saved Effie.
No, that was Peg and Doctor Margery.
She let Grizzl die.
No, her mind said. Grizzl died despite Margery's attention, not because of it.
Mistress Margery, came Peg's voice, whatever you may think, is twice the physician, three times the person, and at least four times a better soul than that person who calls himself Master Theobald.
But Margery had no learning, no languages. How would Matilda ever explain it to Father Leufredus?
Finally she bit her lip and said aloud, "I need not explain it to Father Leufredus. I must do what I think best." She ran back toward Frog Road, where she knew Margery lived.
"Doctor Margery? Doctor Margery?" she asked passersby until one of them pointed out a tiny cottage between a barber-surgeon's shop and the Prince and Hedgehog Tavern.
Matilda arrived at Margery's door and pulled it open, as disheveled and red of face as the woman herself.
"Peg? Is aught amiss with Peg that you should come to my house?" Margery asked.
"No, it is not Peg but Tildy. My friend Tildy." Matilda paused a moment, panting for breath, and then hurried on. "I sorely need your help. Tildy was pushed into the well. She is battered and bleeding and will not wake. Please go and look at her."
"Well, then, let us hurry and see what can be done for the poor mite," said Doctor Margery, putting things into a bag.
As Doctor Margery hastened to Tildy, Matilda went looking for Tom and his wagon. She knew where Saint Brendan was stabled, and there was Tom, sharing turnips and onions with the ox. He yoked Saint Brendan, and they raced back to the market square. In truth they did not race. Matilda's thoughts raced. Her heart raced. But Saint Brendan ambled as he always did, despite Tom's pulling and shouting in Latin.
A crowd of people was gathered about when they arrived, but all were strangely quiet. Doctor Margery was kneeling beside Tildy, who lay still on the ground. "No!" Matilda cried as she jumped from the wagon and ran to Tildy. "No!"
Doctor Margery looked up at Matilda. "Hush, she still lives," the doctor said. Matilda crossed herself in relief as Tom gathered Tildy in his arms. He deposited her gently in the wagon and drove to Doctor Margery's, where he placed her carefully in the doctor's bed before taking himself and Saint Brendan away.
Margery washed Tildy's face. She felt her head and limbs, looked into her eyes and mouth and ears, listened to her chest, and thumped her here and there, while Matilda hovered like a mother bird.
Finally the doctor said, "She has no broken bones, but I think her skull has been fractured, in which case bits of bone endanger her. Her head must be opened further and any pieces removed." She took her knife to Tildy's head and began to clean the wound.
"Are you not afraid the Devil will enter her head through that great hole?" Matilda asked, suddenly worried. Had she done right to fetch Margery?
"It may well be," said Margery. "But there is nothing I can do to prevent that. It is more likely that dirt and sharp bits of bone will enter, and that at least is preventable by careful cutting and cleaning. In any case, a doctor who is afraid is good for nothing. All is in God's hands."
Matilda watched, astonished, as Margery
cleaned the wound with a solution of water betony and sanicle, then put her fingers inside Tildy's head. Matilda's innards groaned and leapt, as if she were spinning herself dizzy, at the sight of so much blood.
The doctor's face glowed red, shiny with sweat, but her hands remained steady and sure as she anointed the wound with bread mold and a salve of mandragora fruit and sewed it closed just as a tailor might. She covered the wound with cobwebs, wrapped a bandage tightly about Tildy's head, and then looked up. Her smile was gentle, and her blue eyes brimmed with compassion. "I have hope she will live, but she may have lost too much blood, or the wound may turn putrid." She lifted the still-sleeping Tildy up and gently poured some foul-smelling tonic down her throat. "She will sleep quite a while now. We can but watch and wait."
Doctor Margery went out, but Matilda sat by her bed all day, watching over Tildy. Had she done right to call Margery? Matilda wondered again. She looked around her as if she could find some clue there.
The doctor had only one small room, but that was, to Matilda's surprise, neat and clean. Knives and other instruments were kept in a small chest, there were bottles and jugs on a table, and herbs hung from the ceiling over the fire pit. There were no books and no astrological charts. Matilda sighed. She had done what she thought best for Tildy, and she was determined to help Margery to help Tildy in any way she could.
That evening Margery returned with a meat pie for Matilda. "I have gone to Peg," Margery said, "to ask if you might stay here for some days. I cannot tend your Tildy and deliver babies at the same time. I need your help. Will you stay?" Matilda nodded, pleased to be needed and happy to stay near Tildy.
Each night, wrapped in Doctor Margery's cloak, she slept on the floor near the sleeping Tildy while Doctor Margery curled at the end of the bed. Each morning and evening the doctor gave Tildy the foul-smelling syrup. Every few hours she would return from this house or that cottage to check on her and give Matilda instructions. The rest of the day Matilda cared for Tildy. When Tildy grew restless and feverish, she wrapped her in cool, wet linen, praying as she did so. She tucked quilts around Tildy's thin body when the chills began. She cleaned Tildy's head wound with wine and changed the bandage. At times Tildy's breathing grew so slow and labored that Matilda thought to run for a priest, but she did not wish to leave her friend alone.